


A Modest Resolution

by Arej



Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [30]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale thinks about books, Idiots in Love, M/M, Other, and ereaders, good thing they know each other so well!, meanwhile Crowley is being a sap, non-explicit proposal, they love each other so much it's almost painful, they're not really male but it's m/m since i used male pronouns throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej
Summary: Day 30 for the advent calendar of prompts.Aziraphale is contemplating a big change - digital books! What a concept - but Crowley has something bigger in mind.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561027
Comments: 11
Kudos: 105





	A Modest Resolution

_Digital books might not be such a bad idea,_ Aziraphale muses. It’s a purely theoretical thought; he hasn’t yet held a digital book, much less seen one, only heard of them from Crowley’s teasing descriptions. He is holding a physical book in his hand right now: a reliable, familiar hardback, Georgette Heyer’s _The Quiet Gentleman_. He’s been idly skimming the page as he thinks rather than reads, but that’s alright. It’s not as if the page is going to go dark from lack of use.

Physical books just embody so many of the things he’s come to love most about reading - the heft of a tome, the sleight weight of a slimmer volume. The crinkle of a turned page and the soft cream of smooth paper. The ruffle of deckled edges - making a comeback, now, to Aziraphale’s absolute approval - under his trailing fingers. Yes, books are a sensory delight.

And that’s not even considering the _smell_.

There is something - humans might say Heavenly, but he knows better - something _transcendent_ about the smell of books. Old or new or somewhere in between, each book is a unique olfactory treat, telling its own stories. Now that he’s let the camouflaging mildew and rot fade away - a giant snake slithering through the stacks does rather more to deter customers than any unwelcoming atmosphere, it seems - the shop air is thick with the comforting smell of books of all ages. Old paper and new ink, fresh glue and cracked leather, the entrancing alchemy of old classics mixed with fresh perspectives; it all blends together into a delightful fragrance he can only describe as ‘home’.

There are other smells mingling with the booknotes, other scents that are essential to this familiar bouquet: warm dust and apples, sweet hints of vanilla, undernotes of dark earth and fresh water and something musky, something ophidian. A dry, scaly smell, comforting in its familiarity, carrying just the barest hint of sulfur - just enough to tickle the senses, and no more. A reminder.

This is a home in more ways than one, now.

Now that Crowley has taken on customer deterrence as a full-time demonic duty, he spends nearly all his days in the shop; when he heads off to check on the plants, or pick up takeaway, or menace the pedestrians of London with his car - generally on the way to or from the flat or a takeaway shop - Aziraphale flips the sign to ‘closed’ and shoos customers out under the ruse of taking inventory, and waits for Crowley to return.

It’s not like he needs to keep the shop open, anyway. With the end of the world firmly behind them, Aziraphale is resolved to do exactly what he likes, and what he likes is most definitely _not_ selling books. He could probably do away with the shop pretense altogether, but Crowley takes such enjoyment in startling unwary browsers; it has quite neatly taken the place of his earlier habit of gluing coins to the sidewalk, and Aziraphale is loathe to deny his demon such a harmless - and helpful! - entertainment. And he must admit, he finds it entertaining, too, even if he affects a scowl, sometimes. Crowley also enjoys feeling as if he’s gotten away with something; they both know he hasn’t gotten away with anything, but it’s fun to pretend.

No, Aziraphale isn’t selling any books; his collection is quite safe, and doesn’t need supplementing with non-physical copies. It’s just that digital books would make this so much easier…

 _This_ is Aziraphale’s new favorite thing about the world post-Armageddon’t. Well - one of them. He has rather a large collection of new favorite things, truth be told, a collection which is beginning to rival his books, but this is up there:

Crowley is sprawled across the sofa in the back room. The carelessly elegant sprawl of his limbs is familiar, beloved; there’s nothing new about how the demon sits, for a generous definition of sitting. It’s how _Aziraphale_ sits that has changed. Months ago - immediately upon returning to the bookshop after the Ritz, actually, the first night of the rest of their lives - he abandoned his armchair and established himself on the end of the sofa, tucked himself between sofa back and armrest, and smiled at a gaping Crowley.

“I’m going to do exactly as I’ve always wanted,” he’d declared, and Crowley had nodded, glasses sliding along his nose.

“’Course, angel, it’s - ’s your shop,” he’d answered, rising from - _leaving!_ \- the sofa. So Aziraphale had reached out and tugged him back down with, perhaps, a little less restraint than might be proper, resulting in one startled demon sprawled inelegantly across an angel’s lap, golden eyes staring up from behind askew glasses. Aziraphale had immediately, without thinking, buried one thick-fingered hand in silken signal fire hair, stroked his hands through soft red strands, the way he’d always wanted.

They’d held there for one long, breathless moment, poised in this new and exciting tableau, before Aziraphale declared, “Yes, that’s perfect,” and leaned down to kiss Crowley all the way senseless.

So, this - this is his favorite thing, or at least one of his favorite new favorite things - Crowley, sprawled here with his head and shoulders in Aziraphale’s lap, eyes closed and face turned slightly inwards. He tends to nap here while Aziraphale reads, absently carding one hand through the demon’s hair.

Digital books, with their one-handed capabilities, would make this _much_ easier.

He can miracle the pages turned, of course, though he prefers not to; it’s not good for the books. So a digital book, with buttons instead of pages, would make this one-handed reading easier. Plus, Crowley will doubtless be delighted to introduce Aziraphale to some shiny, sleek device. Aziraphale is pretty certain he knows more about computers than Crowley, given that he’s been using his old desktop reliably since they first came out and tends to read instruction manuals cover to cover, whereas Crowley bounces from gadget to gadget, relying on his inherent expectation that they’ll work, rather than learning them himself - his demon has always been more about flash than function, anyway - but he suspects it’ll be an enjoyable experience either way.

He is opening his mouth to mention this - the digital book thing, not their vastly different approaches to learning how computers function - when Crowley speaks.

“I have a resolution.”

Well, it’s the time for it; Aziraphale strokes his hand through Crowley’s hair, smiles as the clearly-not-sleeping demon arches into it, and tucks the digital book conversation away for later. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Crowley declares, cracking one eye open. “Want to hear it?”

Aziraphale sets his book side, tugs lightly on carmine silk, and revels in the way Crowley’s smile goes from teasing to tranquil. “You know I do.”

“I resolve,” Crowley begins, eyes fully open now. The sclera have bled away, and his gaze is golden and glittering from edge to edge; he must be comfortable. “I resolve to tell you I love you every day, in every way I can imagine.”

Stunned, caught unawares, Aziraphale stares.

“I resolve to show you in a thousand, a million ways,” Crowley continues. “To write you bad poetry, and good poetry too; to commission art in your likeness; to commit good deeds in your name. I resolve to write my love across the universe, weave it in amongst the stars, so that anyone who glimpses the night sky will stand in awe of how deeply I love you.”

The breath has gone hot and still in Aziraphale’s lungs, held there by wonder and surprise and love, so much love, a veritable flood of it pushing at his suddenly dry tongue and suspiciously moist eyes, but Crowley keeps going.

“I resolve to wake up next to you every morning. You may not sleep, but when I do, it will only be beside you. I resolve to take you with me wherever I go, if you’ll let me, if you’ll join me, and go only as fast as you want me to. I resolve to return to you as quickly as demonically possible whenever I’m forced from your side.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, overcome, but the demon in his lap just smiles. Continues.

“I resolve to bring you laughter and joy in abundance, to balance out the pain you’ve suffered, the frustration I’ve brought you. To unbalance it and tip the scales so far to the good that the bad fails to register. I resolve to bring you peace where I’ve sown chaos, and comfort where I’ve inflicted change. I resolve -”

“Crowley -”

“’M not done, angel,” Crowley chides, but he’s smiling, and there’s no sting to the words. “I resolve to love you impossibly more, every single day. To take your hand whenever you offer it, to offer mine before you can. To offer my heart every moment, entrust it to yours, where it can finally be safe. I resolve to tell you this, every day, and twice on Sundays, and whenever you ask, or whenever you look like you need it, or whenever I just want to say it. I’ve spent so long not saying it, Aziraphale, and you deserve to hear it: I love you, angel, more than anything, and I resolve -”

His breath hitches, once, but he swallows and forges on. “I resolve to spend the rest of eternity telling you how much that is, if you’ll let me.”

When Crowley reaches up to touch his wet cheek, fingers feather-light on his skin, Aziraphale sobs.

“That - Crowley. I don’t know what to _say_.”

“Say you’ll let me, angel. Say it’s okay.”

“It’s - of _course_ it’s okay, it’s so much more than okay!” The words leave him in a rush, tumbling over each other and cascading from his lips as if afraid if they don’t spill fast enough they’ll never see the light of day - or, rather, the light of a quiet Soho bookshop. He aches to bundle Crowley close, to hide his wide eyes and tearstained face in the demon’s bony shoulder, but Crowley takes his grasping hand in both of his, presses their tangled fingers to his lips in a kiss while Aziraphale babbles. “You - oh, Crowley, oh my darling, of course I’ll let you, how could I ever say no to - Crowley, that was - I love you so _much_.”

He fidgets in place, both desperate to cling to Crowley and unwilling to dislodge the slight but comforting weight of him there, cradled in his lap. Crowley resolves the issue neatly by slithering upward, wriggling until he’s piled his legs across the breadth of Aziraphale’s thighs, his arms wound tight about a plush angelic middle. Despite this, he keeps himself just far enough away to maintain full eye contact.

“I love you, Aziraphale. And maybe someday I’ll have the right words to tell you just how much. That barely scratched the surface, I’m afraid.”

There is something fluttering, wild and restless and hopeful, behind Aziraphale’s ribs. “It sounded like a promise.”

“It was.”

The fluttering goes tight with anticipation as he adds, “It sounded like a vow.”

Crowley smiles - has been smiling, this whole time, something soft and open and sincere, and his smile is still all of those things, but there’s an edge of hope tugging at the corners, an edge of promise, now. “It could be,” he offers carefully. “If you - if that’s something you’d like.”

The prospect undoes him; Aziraphale lunges forward, buries his face in Crowley’s neck, whispers his answer somewhere against the demon’s collarbone.

“I’d like that,” he answers, feeling Crowley tremble in his lap. “Oh. Oh, my love, I’d like that very much indeed.”


End file.
